


Ladies and Gentlemen, Hogan's Hermits!

by Abracadebra



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Humor, Prisoner of War, Singing, Stalag 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abracadebra/pseuds/Abracadebra
Summary: In which Barracks 2 is invaded by an earworm straight out of the British music hall tradition. Based on an idea by GrrraceUnderfire and written as her Winter Reviewathon prize.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Ladies and Gentlemen, Hogan's Hermits!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrrraceUnderfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/gifts).



> Written for GrrraceUnderfire as her Reviewathon prize. Her challenge to me was for the barracks to be infected by an earworm. I took my inspiration from an old recording of English music hall performer Harry Champion. The song is in the public domain; copyright has expired.

Silence had just descended for the four men who were gathered around the table in Barracks 2. The first looked nauseated. The second had his hands over his ears in an abundance of caution. The third was cradling his forehead in his palm. The fourth just wore a goofy grin.

They dared to speak only when they finally trusted that the quiet was real.

" _Mon Dieu_ , he's relentless," said the first.

"This happens every time," the second man added.

"That's it. He can't see them anymore. I'm putting my foot down," the third man said firmly.

"I think it's kind of nice," the fourth man ventured.

LeBeau, Kinch and Hogan turned on Carter, their eyes blazing.

"What's nice about it? He can't carry a tune, Carter," LeBeau snapped. "He should never, ever sing."

"Aw, guys, it's not that bad. I mean, it's kind of bad, but he sounds better than Colonel Hogan does. Right, Sir? And he sounds happy, which happens, like, never."

Hogan glared. Carter was oblivious, but he was also correct and Hogan knew it. There was a reason the colonel stuck to the drums.

Then they heard it. Again. The sound came wafting up from the tunnel. Hogan had sent Newkirk down below by convincing him that several Luftwaffe uniforms needed mending urgently. And they did, even if Hogan had to yank down hems and rip seams himself.

Sending Newkirk out of earshot was all part of the plan. What they hadn't counted on was the superb acoustics of the tunnel. Not to mention the complete lack of inhibition Newkirk would display once he thought no one could hear him.

_You don't know who you're lookin' at, now just you look at me_ _  
_ _I'm a bit of a nob I am, belong to royaltee_ _  
_ _I'll tell you how it got about: I married Widow Burch_ _  
_ _And I was King of England when we doddered out the church_ _  
_ _Outside, the people started shoutin' "Hip-hooray"_ _  
_ _Said I "Go down upon your knee it's Coronation Day!"_

"He sounds like a cat with its tail caught in the fence," LeBeau grumbled.

"Oh, God, here comes the chorus again," Hogan groaned. "This must be the tenth time he's sung this song today."

"Eleventh, but who's counting?" Kinch replied.

Carter, however, was bopping his head back and forth in anticipation. "I like the chorus. I think it's catchy!" he chirped.

LeBeau whapped him across the shoulders with his beret.

_I'm Henery the Eighth, I am_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am, I am_ _  
_ _I got married to the widow next door_ _  
_ _She'd been married seven times before_ _  
_ _Everyone was a Henery_ _  
_ _She wouldn't have a William or a Sam_ _  
_ _I'm her eighth old man named Henery_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am_

Carter tipped his ear. "A little more breath management wouldn't hurt. He wouldn't lose his footing as much on some of the higher notes. Daily practice usually helps."

"NO!" Hogan, LeBeau and Kinch said in unison. Carter's cheerful expression turned to surprise.

"This IS daily practice, Carter, and he's not getting better. He'll _never_ get better, and he's making my eardrums throb," Kinch complained. "I need to be able to listen to the radio or we're out of business. I swear, this happens every time he gets around those other English prisoners. Music hall, music hall, music hall."

Hogan nodded. He was wearing a rare expression of defeat. "I know. This is exactly why I don't let him near those guys. Five minutes with 'the lads,' and I can no longer understand a word he says. All they do is tell weird English jokes and laugh and sing." Hogan put air quotes on the last word, underscoring that he was being generous in its interpretation.

"And drink tea," LeBeau said in disgust. But it was hard to hear him over the caterwauling, which had resumed.

_I left the Duke of Cumberland, a pub up in the town_ _  
_ _Soon with one or two monarchs I was holding up me crown_ _  
_ _I sat upon the bucket what the common call their own_ _  
_ _Surrounded by me subjects, I was sitting on the throne_ _  
_ _Up came the potman, he said "Now get off to bed"_ _  
_ _Said I "Now say another word and off'll go your head!"_

"That's kind of clever, actually, 'off with your head.' How many wives did Henery behead again?" Carter asked.

"Two," Kinch said. "Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard. And it's Henry, not Henery."

"That's not what Newkirk says," Carter said flatly, tipping his ear again. This time his foot was tapping.

_I'm Henery the Eighth, I am_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am, I am_ _  
_ _I got married to the widow next door_ _  
_ _She'd been married seven times before_ _  
_ _Everyone was a Henery_ _  
_ _She wouldn't have a William or a Sam_ _  
_ _I'm her eighth old man named Henery_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am_

"No, it's definitely Henery. 'Enery, actually," Carter said. He started to hum the chorus until LeBeau kicked him under the table. "Hey! Ouch!"

"Don't you dare," LeBeau snarled. "You'll only encourage him."

"It's really catchy, LeBeau," Carter said in a pleading way. But before he could resume his humming, Newkirk started in on a new verse.

_Now at the waxwork exhibition not so long ago_ _  
_ _I was sitting among the kings, I made a lovely show_ _  
_ _To good old Queen Elizabeth, I shouted "Wotcher Liz!"_ _  
_ _While people poked my ribs and said "I wonder who this is?"_ _  
_ _One said "It's Charley Peace!" and then I got the spike_ _  
_ _I shouted "Show yer ignorance!" as waxy as you like_

Carter was on his feet. He liked to sing standing up; it was much better for the lungs, and singing was all about breathing, after all.

"Be careful, Carter!" Kinch shouted. "The rhythm is gonna get you!" He could see where this was going, and it was not good.

Carter knew Kinch meant well, but he ignored him. He wanted to sing. No, he _had_ to sing. He refused to make eye contact with LeBeau, Kinch and Hogan as he joined in the chorus.

_I'm Henery the Eighth, I am_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am, I am_ _  
_ _I got married to the widow next door_ _  
_ _She'd been married seven times before_ _  
_ _Everyone was a Henery_ _  
_ _She wouldn't have a William or a Sam_ _  
_ _I'm her eighth old man named Henery_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am_

"That is the worst English accent I've ever heard," Kinch said.

LeBeau muttered under his breath, "As if there are any _good_ English accents."

"Oh, and I suppose you think you can do better?" Carter challenged Kinch.

"As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure I can," Kinch said.

"Guys! Newkirk's singing AND you're arguing. I'm not sure I can take it!" Hogan was this close to whining. And he was right. As the men squabbled, Newkirk continued to sing at the top of his lungs.

_The undertaker called and to the wife I heard him say_ _  
_ _"Have you got any orders mum? We're very slack today_ _  
_ _I picked up number seven for ya, for the Golden Gate_ _  
_ _Let's have a pound upon account of Henery the eighth"_ _  
_ _Oh, when he measured me with half a yard of string_ _  
_ _I dropped upon me marrow bones and sang "God Save the King!"_

"OK, here it comes. This time I'll handle the English accent," Kinch said confidently as he blended his steady baritone with the warbling from down below. Carter, not to be outdone, sang too. They glared at each other, annoyed not to have the solo.

_I'm Henery the Eighth, I am_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am, I am_ _  
_ _I got married to the widow next door_ _  
_ _She'd been married seven times before_ _  
_ _Everyone was a Henery_ _  
_ _She wouldn't have a William or a Sam_ _  
_ _I'm her eighth old man named Henery_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am_

"Second verse, same as the first!" Kinch called out. Who knew if Newkirk was still singing? It no longer mattered; they just didn't care. They repeated the chorus, singing very, very boisterously. Even Hogan and LeBeau were swept up. They sang along in their equally atrocious English accents. The chorus was really quite infectious.

_I'm Henery the Eighth, I am_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am, I am_ _  
_ _I got married to the widow next door_ _  
_ _She'd been married seven times before_ _  
_ _Everyone was a Henery_ _  
_ _She wouldn't have a William or a Sam_ __  
_I'm her eighth old man named Henery_ _  
_ _Henery the Eighth I am_

They sang it again, and again. As the singing grew louder, Schultz came barreling through the door. "Boys, boys!" he shouted. "It's late, and you are making so much noise! Why must you make such a horrible racket after lights out! Oh, this is more than my life is worth! Be quiet before the Kommandant notices!"

As Schultz lectured the foursome at the table, the bunkbed clattered open and Newkirk stepped out. Schultz turned his back, squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears, in complete denial of what he was witnessing.

Newkirk breezed onto the scene in good cheer. "Hallo, hallo, what have we here? Out for a stroll, Schultzie? And what was that ruckus I heard?"

"I'm telling these men not to sing! Everyone must go to sleep. And no singing from you, either, Newkirk!"

"Oh, Schultzie, that would never happen," Newkirk said, his eyes open wide in his very best attempt at sincerity. He put his hand to his chest. "I can't carry a tune. And it's late. People are trying to sleep."

Schultz looked at Newkirk with a warm expression of gratitude. At least one of them had an ounce of sense.

"You see boys? You should be more like Newkirk. Please don't sing anymore."

Schultz patted Newkirk on the shoulder appreciatively as he brushed his way past him. The door banged shut behind him as he disappeared into the pitch of night.

The men at the table sat in silence. Newkirk hovered over them, gloating. For once, he wasn't in trouble and they were. "Singing after lights out?" he said softly. "Tsk, tsk."

Carter piped up. "Hey Newkirk?"

"Yeah, Carter?"

"What other songs do you know?"

**Author's Note:**

> People my age (i.e., old) know the Herman's Hermits song released in 1965, but it was already 55 years old by then. And once again, the song is in the public domain; copyright has expired.


End file.
